


The Pull After the Fall

by goldfyshie927



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfyshie927/pseuds/goldfyshie927
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is The Winter Soldier? Takes place before and after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</p><p>Obviously there were a ton of creative liberties taken with this story. Please don't hate me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pull After the Fall

_**Present** _

_Bucky._

The name needles at the edges of his brain, like an itch he can’t reach. Why did it matter what that man on the bridge called him? As far as he’s concerned, or HYDRA for that matter, he doesn’t have a name, just a calling.

* * *

 

_**December 1939** _

“James!” he heard Rebecca call from the front step just as he was getting into the car. “Mother said to bring home some bread.”

“I will,” he called back, rolling his eyes.

Wasn’t he too old to still be living at home? He supposed it would be more difficult to move out - someone had to look after his mother and sister. Still, with the world on the brink of war, it was getting harder and harder to justify sitting around, waiting for something to happen. He wanted to be out there, helping somehow. Plus, all that helping sure came with it’s perks - a uniform guaranteed his way into the hearts of many a beautiful broad. Especially Sally. 18, beautiful, and sweet, she told him that she only wanted to be with a man who “meant something to the world” and so he determined to be that man. It was just a matter of broaching the topic with his mother.

She wouldn’t take well to his decision to drop out of college to join the military. His father had been a soldier who, after he’d taken a lungful of mustard gas during The Great War, suffered with poor health the rest of his life and died world weary but accomplished. Luckily, his mother - a Buchanan (of Buchanan & Co. department store fame) from Westchester, New York - had a sizeable inheritance to keep their family going, even when his father couldn’t work anymore, and they didn’t want for anything, even during this awful Depression that seemed to be taking down families left and right.

His best buddy Steve on the other hand… well, there weren’t many nights that he didn’t go to bed cold or hungry. After his mom died, joining his father in the nearby cemetery, he lived on his own. Stubborn, he wouldn’t take Bucky up on his offer at living with his family. But he was a hard worker, Bucky would give him that.

Bucky snorted. Steve had given him that nickname when he’d heard his full name, James Buchanan Barnes, yelled by his mother in anger when he was 9. Until then, he’d been known as James to everyone, including Steve. Once Steve had coined the nickname, Bucky couldn’t escape it. Only his mother and sister called him by his given name. Even now, as he drove to pick Steve up for a night out on the town, he thought back fondly to those days of childhood, when things were simple and his path was spelled out for him.

* * *

_ **January 2012** _

It wasn’t often that he got a night off. If he was lucky, it was about once a year or so.

He didn’t care. What would he do anyway? It’s not like he had any hobbies.

But this night in particular, he felt a pull he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Covered from head to toe, his arm carefully concealed beneath a jacket and black leather gloves, he strode into the small bar, a ball cap pulled down over his face and his hair tucked behind his ears. It was a tiny place, packed full of people listening to an old fashioned, smokey song about love and caring for someone. He grimaced slightly - this was not what he normally went for on his nights off. He sat down at a small, dimly lit table in the back, avoiding the people around him. Most were wrapped up with each other; it seemed to be a place to go if you wanted to meet someone.

“What can I get you, handsome?” a sweet voice broke through his thoughts.

His head snapped up sharply and he focused on the girl in front of him. Young and pretty - even he could admit that - she held a little tray out in front of her, empty glasses stacked and balanced precariously. He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat.”

He didn’t know why he was ordering anything at all - whatever they’d done to him, alcohol made very little difference to his bloodstream. But he liked to imagine he could get swept away in it, if only for a night. Kate - that’s what her nametag said - winked and told him she’d be right back. What was he doing? They’d pull this memory from him, like they had all the others. It was pointless. He watched her leave, and for a few moments he contemplated standing up and walking out of the bar.

Instead he stayed and watched her from across the room, as she flitted from table to table, collecting empty glasses, picking up her tips, and then, finally, plucking his drink from the bar and placing it on her tray. “Sorry about the wait on that. It’s a busy night.” She handed it to him and he took it, careful to use his right hand. His left hand still gave him trouble from time to time - it was difficult to gauge how tightly he was gripping things. Which was fine when he was doing his job, but not when he was trying to hold a glass, or squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush, or open a door. What a strange train of thoughts his mind had taken. Before she walked away, she brushed a hand across his shoulder. “I’m off at 1. If you stick around ‘til then, we can talk. You seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind. If you don’t want to talk, no problem. Up to you.”

He gulped down his drink. Really, what was he doing? Standing, he pulled his cap down even more and started to walk away. When a couple tried to take his table, he suddenly had a change of heart. Blue eyes narrowing, he gave the guy a menacing look, and then sat back down. The couple scurried away, the guy looking at him with a mixture of fear and anger on his face.

He had no idea what he was trying to accomplish, but he felt like he had to stay.

* * *

 

_**Present** _

It wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t the feeling of hundreds of volts rushing through his body, his teeth clenching together so hard that he thought his jaw might snap into tiny pieces. It wasn’t the small burns he had afterwards or the bruises from the restraints. When they erased him, the worst part was the feeling of loss - a thread, a memory, pulled away from the front of his mind like it was being dragged away on a rip tide. He felt physically empty afterwards and never knew what he was missing.

Each time it hurt more. And each time, it took longer. That pull in his mind was more demanding. He didn’t even have it in him to fight them. When they held the mouthguard out to him, he licked his lips and opened willingly, because what was the point of fighting? He had nothing to live for anymore but to serve the cause. To do what he was told. To kill.

* * *

 

_**December 1939** _

“Steve! Steve - come on!” Bucky called after his best friend who was currently stomping away. Sometimes it was hard not to want to laugh. As much as he cared about Steve, when he threw these little tantrums he looked like a kid and it was a little funny. But he straightened his face instead and ran after him. “That girl was a tease anyway. You don’t want a girl like that. Trust me.”

Steve stopped, his face turned upward towards Bucky’s. He looked genuinely broken. “I don’t know why you make me come out with you at all. I just get in the way. Girls don’t like me. And the fellas - they just like pushing me around. Just leave me alone.” He turned and continued down the street, his humiliation making his shoulder slump and his feet drag a little. Bucky just followed him, albeit a little more slowly. He wanted to make sure he got home okay. After several blocks, Steve stopped and turned around, facing Bucky. “I don’t need you to walk me home.”

Bucky just kept walking, past Steve, and whistled a little tune. “I wasn’t walking you home. I was just taking a stroll.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. “Look. Face it. You’re better than me - all the girls like you, the guys respect you… you’ll be in the military in no time. I’m just dead weight. Just go back there, get your girl, and I’ll see you around.”

Bucky looked Steve square in the eyes and said, “Not gonna happen. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. Now come on, you’re coming to my place.” He slung his arm around Steve’s shoulder, and steered him back to where the car was parked.

* * *

_ **January 2012** _

He still couldn’t figure out why - why he sat unmoving from his spot at that tiny table, why he continued to order whiskey after whiskey, why he listened to this god-forsaken music that seemed to be creating a hole in his brain where all his good judgement was being sucked into. Maybe the whiskey did work after all. But no, he shook his head, he was clear as a whistle. Just feeling…

_Feeling._

_Remembering._

That was the problem. That’s why he came here. It made sense - it was about that time. Once a year - sometimes more if needed - they wiped him clean. They took every shred of memory, humanity, feeling from him and made him back into what they needed him to be. Eventually it came back, granted in bits and pieces.

So he’d fight it tonight. He’d give into whatever he wanted and then they could take it away from him tomorrow. He knew they were always watching, so he raised his glass, tilting it in front of him in a silent salute, then swallowed what liquid was remaining in a quick gulp. Looking at the clock over the bar, he noted the time - 12:56. She’d be off soon and he could let go for a minute, forget that he was a machine and just be a lost soul. Maybe she’d help rescue him.

He almost smiled at the thought, stupid as it was.

Suddenly panicking, he realized she’d probably need a name. A name to go along with this face but that was sort of forgettable. He looked back through the files in his mind, trying to find one that was common enough to get away with. Unsure of where the name came from, he settles on it.

_James._

Good, he nodded. That was a normal name. Fidgeting with the cocktail straw that came in his glass, he twisted it around his pointer finger, left hand, noting that he couldn't really feel anything in that hand but a phantom sensation of the blood being cut off. Tighter and tighter he pulled the straw, willing the sensation to become real, until the straw snapped.

For some reason, it made him feel bad.

“Hey, what’d that straw ever do to you?” a musical voice sounded just near his ear, making him tense up.

Somehow Kate managed to sneak up on him and had her face uncomfortably close to his. No one usually got that close to him without doing something terrible, so he pulled away slightly, feeling his heart pick up. She straightened, reading the discomfort on his face, and stepped back. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Undoing her apron, Kate sat down in the chair across the table and leaned forward. “Tonight was crazy. Did you see those two guys almost get into a fight? All over the name of a song. So stupid….” she faded off at the blank look on his face. “What’s your name anyway?”

“James.” He said it too quickly, too unfamiliarly to be true, his eyes not quite meeting hers. Kate gave him a little look and then shrugged.

“Okaaay,” she said, drawing the word out. “Well, James. What’s on your mind?”

He panicked again. Of course she’d ask him that. He had nothing on his mind except wanting to get out of here with her, in the hopes that it might make him feel more. So he was honest. “You.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “I don’t normally go home with strangers. But I will take you out for a cup of coffee if you want.” He shrugged, not sure what to say but desperate not to be alone. “Okay, let me get my bag and I’ll meet you out front in 5?”

He just shrugged again and headed out the door.

* * *

 

_ **June 1941** _

“Steve, you gotta come with me. Dorothy will be there. Remember her? Brown hair, big blue eyes, curves for miles?” Bucky held his hands out in front of his chest, gesturing how large her breasts were and making Steve laugh.

Steve just rolled his eyes. “Fine. But don’t ditch me this time. You know I hate that. If we’re going to spend the day at Coney Island, we’re spending it together. We’re not just going for some dame.”

Bucky stuck his hand out, “It’s deal. Now let’s go.” But he did have other plans. He was taking Judy through on the ride Tunnels of Love, and damned if he wasn’t going to make it worth the long ride in the damp air. In order to do that, he just had to get Steve taken care of, then he was free as a bird. They could all meet up afterwards to get some dinner. Steve would understand.

Once they made their way through the gates to the park, Bucky scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar heads of hair. He spotted them, sitting on a nearby bench, talking animatedly. “There they are Steve. Take it in. Those girls are ripe for the taking.” He strode to them confidently, Steve trailing behind him, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing to them with a grin on his handsome face. “You remember my best pal Steve right?”

“Sure,” Judy said, stars in her eyes as she smiled up at Bucky, her eyes barely flitting over Steve’s face in recognition. Dorothy looked less than pleased but stood up with her friend, taking Steve’s offered arm.

“You know,” Steve started. “Coney Island was built…” Bucky sort of tuned him out, chiming in occasionally, but mostly directing all his attention to Judy who looks particularly beautiful. Steve had a nervous habit of over-explaining things, which Bucky was used to but Dorothy was not. She had a look of pure irritation on her face and Bucky suddenly felt really guilty about his plan. Not guilty enough to put a stop to it but enough that he knew he’d have to come up with a really good way to make it up to Steve. They made a detour to a nearby ice cream stand, Steve still rambling about the history of the amusement park.

“One strawberry for my lovely lady,” Bucky said handing a cone to Judy. “And a chocolate for you.” Steve looked at him gratefully. “You sure you don’t want one?” he asked Dorothy.

“Hm? Oh, no thank you. I’m fine,” she replied, looking distracted.

Bucky realized that they’re going to have to pick up the pace so he directed their small group to a nearby ride - the Tilt-a-Whirl. “Come on. It’ll be fun,” he insisted when Steve declined. Steve sat down stubbornly on bench, his arms crossed and his gray eyes steely with determination. Bucky knew there was no hope trying to get him to change his mind so he shrugged and walked onto the ride with Judy and Dorothy, the three of them occupying a car together with Bucky in the middle.

It was a dizzying ride and when they come off, laughing together, Steve’s face fell a little. Before the girls noticed, his face changed and he grinned, “Looks like you guys all had fun. Who’s up for a change in pace though?” Steve gestured towards the Tunnels of Love and Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, wondering how Steve knew. With a wink, Steve took Dorothy’s elbow and walked her to the entrance. Shaking his head with a small laugh, Bucky followed his best friend through the gate.

* * *

 

_ **Present** _

“That man on the bridge. Who was he?” he asks Pierce.

Pierce explains him away - tells him that he met him on an earlier mission and dismisses him.

“I knew him,” he insists.

“... you don’t do your part, I can do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Bucky tunes back in long enough to answer sadly, “But I knew him.”

This time, they have to wipe him twice.

_But I knew him._

When they finish round one, and the insistent phrase “I knew him” falls from his lips, they sigh and do it all again. Something about that man’s face short circuited the wiring in his brain, causing an overload of flashes in his mind - memories, even though they’re just small pieces that don’t make sense.

 ****  


_An older woman yelling “James!” as he runs down the street._

_That man from the bridge, but he looks different - younger and sickly - tossing a baseball to him_

_in an empty lot._

_Dancing with a beautiful girl in a crowd._

_Being taken prisoner._

_Pain - his body poked and prodded._

_Falling._

_Always the feeling of falling. This is nothing new._

**But.I.Knew.Him.**

_This time when he falls, he sees the man from the bridge with his hand reached out, high above him and as he is now, yelling “Bucky!”_

Then it's gone.

It’s all gone.

When he comes to after the second wipe, his muscles tense and tight and his jaw sore from clenching his teeth together, he’s surprised to find his cheeks wet.

“What happened?” he demands, his voice hoarse. “What is this?”

The doctors give each other uncomfortable looks. Finally, one speaks up, his voice wavering slightly.

“You - you cried.”

* * *

 

_ **January 2012** _

Kate walked with funny little steps, like she was dancing, and hummed a song that had played in the bar. Something about her makes him feel light, like he can almost forget. She also talked a lot and, blessedly, didn't ask him too many questions. It had begun snowing lightly and as they approached a street corner, she stopped suddenly and looked up at the streetlight.

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” she asked, gazing at the flakes that fall slowly across the light.

He didn't think so but, then again, how could he know for sure?

Suddenly he clutched his head - a sharp flash of pain and the shadows of a memory swept across his brain.

_Presents, lots of presents._

_Glittering lights on a fir tree._

_An older woman, dressed up in a beautiful dress, handing him a wrapped box._

_A boy - young and small - smiling up at him, clutching a new sweater in his hands._

_Snow, lots of snow, falling all around him and that boy. The two of them, running around in circles, chasing each other, piling snow up into forts, and tossing snowballs at one another._

“Are - are you okay?” Kate placed a hand on his shoulder, looking concerned.

He pulled away, unable to speak for several moments as the pain receded. When he was finally able to react, he nodded, his tongue thick in his mouth and his throat dry as cotton. “Yes,” he choked out roughly. After a minute or so, his head felt back to normal but his body felt weak and drained.

Kate pointed towards a brightly lit glass door. “They have the best late night coffee in the city. I’ll buy you that cup.” Without his consent, she gripped his elbow tightly and steered him in that direction.

It was all he could do not to snatch her hand from his arm, so he gritted his teeth and moved with her across the street.

Once they were seated, steaming cups of coffee held in front of their faces, Kate tilted her head slightly and questioned, “So, what’s your story, soldier?”

“Soldier?” He was confused. How could she know what he was?

Kate shrugged one shoulder and took a small sip from her mug. “Yeah. I mean, I kind of put two and two together. Haunted eyes, straight back, no-nonsense attitude? It’s all part of the territory right? The hair’s a little long but...” she waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, my brother served three tours in Iraq and one in Kuwait. I’ve seen it all. I took care of him before - ” she broke off suddenly and looked away, uncomfortable.

He wanted to know what she was going to say, wanted to hear her voice some more. “Before?”

She sat up straight and looked him in the eye, as if steeling herself for something painful. “Before he didn’t come home. He died, a year ago.”

Oh. He hadn't expected that. Death was part of his life - almost every day, no stopping, no thinking, just doing. It wasn’t anything new to him.

But that night, it was almost too much. He felt his chest go strangely tight so he took a big gulp from his mug, relishing in the feel of the hot liquid searing his tongue and throat. Pain was easier to accept. Didn’t get you killed. Didn’t make you think too much.

“Woah. Easy there,” Kate laughed, placing her fingers against his hand and tugging the mug down from his face. “That’s gotta hurt. Look, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Most people don’t like hearing that story. It’s a sad one, I’ll admit it.”

But he wasn't listening. Her fingers were still wrapped around his and he looked at them curiously.

This time, he didn't pull away.

* * *

 

_ **June 1941** _

Bucky helped Judy into the little boat, then climbed in next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Before the ride started, she leaned close and whispered, “You just might get lucky today, Bucky Barnes.”

“I’m counting on it,” he responded with a grin.

The boat moved forward with a little jolt and Judy fell against him, making his hand slip from her shoulder, just a touch lower. A small smile on her face, Judy blushed and faced forward as they moved slowly through the open tunnel in front of them. The ride was long and dark, just the way he wanted, so he takes his time. Pulling her hand into his, he threaded their fingers together. She turned to face him in the dim light, music tinkling through the darkness, so he kissed her. Soft and chaste, their lips just barely touched before she pulled back and faced the front again. He wanted to groan - that was just a tip of the iceberg. But patience was the answer, he was sure of it.

After a few minutes, he turned Judy towards him again and pressed his mouth to hers. She sighed quietly against his mouth, her breath feather soft against his skin. He carefully probed her lips with the tip of his tongue, eager for permission to enter. She opened her lips slightly, allowing him entrance. Placing a hand on her shoulder, his fingers slowly slid down to graze her through her blouse, testing the waters.

She pressed against his hand and then wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him to her tightly which surprised him. Eyes opened wide now, Bucky was thrown off balance which caused the boat to rock precariously and threatened to dump them into the small stream. When he righted himself, he overcorrected and sure enough, they ended up sitting in the few inches of filthy water below.

Judy stood, shaking her hands, her hair wet and curls falling out. “Bucky Barnes! What did you DO?” she screeched.

He stood up, looking down at her with sheepish blue eyes. “Judy, I’m sorry.”

“I’m leaving,” she shouted, climbing out of the water with some difficulty, her skirt clinging to her legs. She stomped down the small boardwalk along the side of the tunnel, trying not to trip in the dim light. Bucky pushed his hair back off his forehead, then shoved his hands into his pockets, and followed her out into the cool night air. They waited - him embarrassed and her impatient - for Steve and Dorothy’s small boat to exit the tunnel. Judy tapped her foot against the ground, a strange little rhythm that started to grate on Bucky’s nerves. It wasn’t his fault the boat tipped over.

He sighed. “I am really sorry Judy. Don’t be mad at me,” he pleaded as he tried to place his arm around her shoulder and was met with a strong glare from her icy green eyes.

* * *

 

_ **Unknown Month 1943** _

All Bucky felt was pain.

Eventually, he missed the press of the needles into his flesh, the bruising crush of the straps holding him to the chair. At least when they were experimenting he could focus on the anger he felt at their hands. Physical pain was easy to bear.

But when they left him at night, that’s when he felt true pain.

_Hopelessness - dark and sticky like quicksand, it just pulled him down deeper and deeper._

_Sorrow - bleak and endless and prickly, making his skin crawl._

_Loneliness - empty and gigantic, like a gaping hole had been ripped through his body._

_Regret - ice cold and crushing, like a heavy pit being pressed against his chest._

 

He missed his mother. He missed his sister. He missed his father. He missed his bed, the smell of his pillow, the taste of his mother’s meatloaf. He missed the 4th of July on his street, fireworks lighting up the sky. He missed his father’s pocket watch, which he’d left sitting on his nightstand when he’d been called to war. He missed his sister’s laugh when he’d tell her about his most recent dates. He even missed school, with it’s unwavering monotony.

But mostly he missed Steve.

That was the only time the misery became truly unbearable. That was the time he let the tears come without embarrassment. He couldn’t hold them back. He’d never told Steve how he’d saved him, how grateful he was for him, and how he wouldn’t be the person he was today without him. He never got the chance to tell him that Steve was the real reason he joined the military. He’d lied to everyone, telling them it was for his father, when all along it was because he knew he’d never be as good as Steve if he didn’t. And now he never would get the chance. He’d die here in this factory. He knew it.

All that regret, heavy and cold in his chest - it was for Steve.

* * *

 

_ **June 1941** _

“Bucky, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Steve pressed as they waited for the train. “There are plenty of other girls out there. And you’ll have plenty lined up waiting for you.” He laughed humorlessly - a short bark of noise that startled Bucky out of his upset stupor.

“It’s not just that. I mean, what’s the point of all this?” He sighed, then pushed his hair back; it was falling over his forehead. “I suppose you’re right…” he agreed, half heartedly. “Look, I just wanna get home and get out of these clothes.” The day put him in a foul mood and he just wanted to go home, eat dinner, and forget about the whole thing.

Steve nodded, understanding Bucky’s need for silence. They rode the train home in quiet and their walk was just as bad. Steve made a couple of jokes that actually caused Bucky to crack a smile, but for the most part he kept silent, feeling upset and rejected. It wasn’t often that he was on the receiving end and it made him feel unsettled.

“Hey buddy, I’ll just see you tomorrow, okay?” Steve said when they reached Bucky’s street. He started to walk towards the nearest subway.

Bucky called to him, “Wait!” Steve turned back to him, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Don’t you want to just stay the night? Ma’s making meatloaf...” he trailed off.

“Nah. I think you need a little time to yourself.” Steve gave him a half smile and waved, then turned and continued walking to the subway station. Bucky stood in the middle of the street, one hand outstretched a little as if to stop Steve. Long after he’d descended to the subway, Bucky stood there, feeling lost. What was he doing?

He turned on his heel and walked home, slowly, in the fading light. His mother was sitting on the front stoop, cutting green beans for dinner and watching some neighbor kids play in the street. “Welcome home,” she smiled, setting the bowl to her side. Bucky gave her a small smile. As usual, she read right through it. “What’s the matter? And why are your clothes damp?”

He sat next to her, leaning back against the sun warmed steps, but he didn’t have an answer for her. As he watched the sun set, he thought. He thought about his dad - hard worker and always willing to do the right thing. He thought about the war waging overseas - it was only a matter of time before America got involved. He thought about Steve - never one to back down from a fight for what he believe. And he thought about his own path. “Ma,” he started, then stopped.

“Yes, James?” she prompted when he allowed several beats of silence to pass. “What’s wrong?” She gently pulled his head toward her shoulder, smoothing his hair away from his face, the way she’d done as long as he could remember. Any time he’d felt lost, upset, sick, she stroked his hair gently - up and back from his forehead, smoothing it down and somehow making everything feel right again. Just like he knew it would, as she rubbed his head, he felt the crease between his eyebrows soften and his shoulders loosen.

“What am I doing with my life?” he finally asked. “School is important I know. But I don’t want to go into business. I want to make a difference.”

“Oh James…”

He interrupted her. “I’m going to join the army, ma. I’m dropping out of school. I want to help people.”

She was quiet for a moment before she whispered, “I know” and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Together they sat in silence, mother and son. And as she rubbed his arm comfortingly, he had a peaceful clarity settle in his mind, welcome and needed.

He would help people.

He’d be good, like his father, like Steve.

* * *

 

_ **February 2012** _

“Do you know this girl?” Pierce demanded, pressing a photograph of a young, blonde girl up to his face, nearly against his nose. His eyes went crossed a little as he tried to focus in on the picture.

“No,” he said, pulling away enough to focus on Pierce’s face again. He was confused. Why was he asking him this?

Pierce sighed, setting the photograph back into the folder on his lap. “She’s a liability. Take care of her. You’ll find everything you need in this brief. You know the drill. Keep it clean. Make it quick. Get out of there.”

He nodded. What more was there to say? Picking up the file, he began to read.

* * *

 

_ **Present** _

“He cried?” he hears Pierce ask the doctors, disbelief coloring his voice.

He can't believe it himself. Why would he have cried? He supposed it was his body’s natural reaction to the procedure. After all, it was painful at times.

For some reason, the thought of himself crying makes him angry and he feels his left hand clench into a fist involuntarily. He wants to destroy this lab, break all the equipment. But instead, he pulls the anger back into a ball of emotion, hard and tight in his chest.

It would be useful when he got his next assignment.

Pierce comes into the room, the doctors trailing behind him. “The doctors said you’re ready. I don’t think I need to remind you what’s at stake here.”

He shakes his head. “No. You know I’ll finish this.”

Pierce smiles. “Hail HYDRA.”

* * *

 

_ **January 2012** _

A soft hand stroked his hair, brushing it away from his face. Still half asleep, he leaned into it unconsciously and a name popped into his mind - quiet as a whisper - before disappearing again.

_Ma_

The name brought him to awareness and he slowly started to wake up. Normally he woke right up, no problem. Then he realized that he was lying against a soft shoulder and woke up completely. Rather than pulling away like his instincts were telling him, he left his head where it was. Kate was combing his hair with her fingers, brushing it back and away from his face, while she quietly watched tv. Dawn was approaching and golden light pushed through the curtains, leaving bright spots of early morning sun on the walls. He kept his eyes half closed, not wanting her to notice him yet, and took in the situation.

She’d invited him into her home, gave him tea, and let him sit quietly while she chatted about everything and nothing. She didn’t ask him questions, she didn’t expect answers. And, he surmised, he'd fallen asleep. He'd fallen asleep close enough to her to lay against her shoulder. Strange. Glancing around, he noticed his hat was lying next to him on the daybed she called a couch along with his gloves, but his jacket remained on his body. She must have covered them with the plaid blanket that had been tucked up around his shoulders sometime during the night.

He shifted and Kate stopped stroking his hair. When she removed her hand, he pulled it back down. “Please?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

She continued but broke the silence with a question of her own, soft and hesitant. “Who is Steve?”

He sat up, her hand falling from the side of his face. “Who?”

“Steve. You said his name several times last night. You seemed like you were having a nightmare. I take it you don’t sleep very well at night.” Kate paused before her next question. “Are you guys a couple? I totally get it if you are. Makes sense why you seemed totally uninterested.”

“A couple?” he echoed. “No. I don’t know a Steve.” He shook his head emphatically, as if trying to shake that name right out of his brain.

She frowned, confusion clear on her face. “Must have been a weird dream then.” She pointed at his left arm. “That’s some prosthesis. Fancy. I didn’t realize… is that from the war?”

He was shocked that he hadn't notice his exposed hand, silver and gleaming in the light, and covered it quickly with his jacket sleeve. Avoiding her question, he bit out a reply, “I should go now.” He stood up quickly and looked at the clock - it was much later than he would have liked to be leaving. Pulling his gloves on, he avoided her eyes. His hat followed, snug on his head and pulled down over his forehead.

Kate stood and stretched, walking with him to the door. “Hey, I know you don’t like to talk much, and I respect that. You’re a private person. But if you ever need someone to… not talk with, my door is always open. You know where I’ll be.”

He shrugged non-committally. _This will never happen again_ , he thought. He'd already risked too much coming here as it was and had a feeling that they'd make him pay for it but accepted that. It was a package deal. He adjusted his gloves, making sure none of the metal showed through. Kate watched with curious eyes but doesn’t ask anymore about it, thankfully.

“I’ll see you around, James,” she smirked around his name, as if she knew that it wasn’t really his. Then, before he could move, she rolled up on her tip toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her soft breath fanning across his skin.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move from his place at her front door and she just ducked back inside, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

Then, once again, he was alone.

* * *

 

_ **Unknown month 1943** _

He didn’t know where or who he was anymore. So it was as much a struggle to clearly see the face swimming across his vision as it was to actually identify who he was. But when he said who he was, he felt conflicting emotions - first a warm wash of happiness and then confusion because he didn’t recognize the name.

He repeated himself, “It’s me. Steve.”

After a beat, he remembered. Oh. Steve. But he was different. He recognized the soft gray-blue eyes, the quick flash of his smile. But he didn’t recognize the height, couldn’t reconcile the broad shoulders and build with the Steve he knew.

Then Steve pulled him off the table and helped him to his feet and he knew it was him. He could feel it in his bones, past all the bruises and pain: the familiar hand on his shoulder, the kind voice, the straight forward Boy Scout-like attitude. He couldn’t stop his small smile. Of course it would be Steve. He knew - Steve, of perpetual goodness, who couldn’t walk past a hurt dog without checking on it, who never gave up hope, who looked for the decency in all of humankind and always wanted to do the right thing.

He always knew Steve would save him.

* * *

 

_ **February 2012** _

He sits, waiting, silent, a silenced gun in his hand. He’ll make this quick. It’s what he’s good at. A single girl, untrained at that, will be easy to dispose of. The room is dark and as he listens, he can hear her footsteps, walking up the hall - quick, dance-like steps.

Her key turns in the lock and he stands, preparing. Aiming.

Once she’s inside, door closed and locked behind her, she flips a switch, bathing the room in pale pink light.

He’s not expecting that.

He’s not expecting her to look him in the eyes.

He freezes as the sound of her clear voice, tinged with a combination of fear and recognition rings out across the room.

“James? What are y-”

He hesitates only for a moment, wondering who James is.

He pulls the trigger, a single bullet stopping her question.

He watches her slump to the floor, red blooming across her plain gray t-shirt where she clutches her chest.

He hears her ask, quiet and faint and oddly sad, “Why?” but has no answer.

He stays until the light drains from her eyes - eyes locked with his - and her pulse fades away into nothingness.

Then he calls it in and leaves. HYDRA will take care of the disposal.

It’s not until he’s back to the lab and waiting for his debriefing that he realizes her footsteps rang familiar and he feels a strange lurch inside, but he still doesn’t know why.

* * *

 

_**Present** _

He always knew there was never a way to permanently erase him. That’s why they did it so frequently. After a while, more persistent memories always flooded back. None of them made sense but he knew they were his. It was almost easier to be erased, because then he didn’t have to make sense of them.

This time is different. After the fight on the helicarrier, after he dragged Captain America from the water of the Potomac River, he knows he has to find out who he was. He knows his own name now, although he doesn’t connect with it: James Buchanan Barnes. He knows they were friends, or had been at one point. This time the memories he has make a little more sense. Now he understands - or is starting to - why he saw this man’s face in his mind, why the name Bucky bothered him so much.

But with the old memories come newer ones. He always remembered his missions, training, and his superiors - they didn’t want him to forget what they deemed important. Now, though, he remembers other people, faces, experiences. With the memories come a flood of emotions.

He remembers that nice girl, who, a couple of years ago, let him rest for a night. He remembers pulling the trigger. And now he remembers her name - Kate - and feels an immense sadness for the life he wasted.

Not just hers, not just the countless others that he ruined, but for his own. And for his friend’s.

He has nothing else to do. No where else to go. No one to talk to. So he grabs the first few things he finds in his hideout - a jacket, ball cap, some jeans, a handful of crumpled money from a dead scientist’s pocket - and he walks. He doesn’t know where to but he walks for longer than he thought was possible. And he ends up at a museum he’s never been before. Walking through the small exhibit about Captain America, he studies each piece of history - his history too, he reminds himself - carefully.

Then he sees himself - clear and larger than life, etched into glass. As he listens to the recording playing over head, he knows then that he has to find the people that did this to him and finally, _finally_ he remembers who he really is.

_Bucky._

 


End file.
